


Hello, Gorgeous

by nigellecter



Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5050330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigellecter/pseuds/nigellecter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Nigel in Bucharest, Will takes on a role of Gabi, taking care of Nigel when he's gravely injured.<br/>rp'ing with atrappedfly on Tumblr.<br/>In rp'ing style, Will/Nigel<br/>Unedited, unbeta'ed, mistakes are our own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bucharest, Romania. The capital and largest city in the country far away from home. At least that is how Will Graham saw it as he stood off the side of the road, looking over the uniquely laid out city. It felt as if buildings were stacked on top of buildings, and still he was left confused without a place to stay. The entire idea behind his vacation had been to relieve his stress, though if he learned anything from the cab drivers and some other locals it was the mere fact that the stress was going to be higher. Why he had bothered going to a country where he didn’t know the language was beyond him, but still his body demanded relaxation and this by far was the only way he saw fit. 

When he asked if there were any bed and breakfast places his cab driver dropped him off in front of a small café with a sign that he couldn’t entirely translate, and so all that he could manage was to go inside and ask around. The dim lighting of the restaurant made the thick black curls on top of his head stand out more, his blue eyes darker than usual as they scanned the inside, relaxed by the melodic tune of the female playing the cello. Overall he assumed it was just a place to gather for a meal, but there was a sign pointing up the stairs that grabbed his attention. 

The sign had a poorly drawn image of a bed with a light next to it, and so with his own deductions he had figured that it was the way to go to get a room. He took the steps slowly, looking around curiously at the images on the wall. It was quite the cozy place, somewhere where he imagined regulars would go for a family outing. It only made him wish he had brought someone along to join him, or at least his dogs. 

There was no check-in desk to be seen when he had finally made it to the top, overlooking the balcony with several doors strewn about it. They were all painted white, some of the paint peeling off while others appeared to be repainted within the last few years. It was a lot nicer than he would have assumed it to be, but the struggle with not knowing how to check in only made him more uneasy, making him wish the airport hadn’t made him remove the pain killers from his bag as a precaution. He could really use something to help calm his nerves. 

Will figured he could get a better look around, and so he began to explore the upper floor, looking at the doors more up close until he came across a door that was creaked open just a smidge. His knuckles knocked quietly against the wood before he held his breath to listen. When he heard no response he had assumed that the room was open, and it would give him a chance to look inside to see if that is what he was looking for. Slowly he pressed it open before walking inside, admiring the ugly flower printed wallpaper. It added a unique look to the place. 

It was only when his bright blue eyes fell onto the bloody man did he freeze, looking at the wound at his side and then his face. “I—I…” The stutter came quickly along with the panic of trying to communicate with someone who looked like they were just dragged out of hell. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude…” He paused, licking his bottom lip. “Do you speak English? Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

______

You could call it recklessness, most of his associates would call it bravery. He would call what he had done a sheer desperate attempt to corner his turncoats into a dead end. It was supposed to be his most grand achievement if the smuggling succeeded. Gathered around the dock a little past midnight, one of his associates had informed him about the opposite gang’s firearms shipment. Tons of revolvers and handguns to last a lifetime, with boxes of cartridges that can bring down an entire army. His own ammunition running low and in need of stocking up, snatching in the middle of the transporting would be such a serendipitous opportunity too good to miss. 

There had been his former associates who deceived him and they were the first to be ferociously killed by him, as he had been so deft and dexterous with firearms, especially with revolvers and handguns. For this particular showdown, he had his usual gold-capped handgun that he always carried with him no matter what and one of his backup, a revolver with a caliber .54 cartridges. Two head shots, traitors taken care of. When someone betrays his trusts, he had no questions or heard any motives. It was as easy as they had been stamped with an expiration date. Barely taking an effort, he was best at taking mid-range shots, his field of vision exceptional as well as his eyesight that supported it. 

Everything seemed to go at ease as the associates circled around the container to take over. After bloodshed that ended up in his own faction’s victory, an arch-nemesis had been hiding inside one of the containers that hadn’t been taken over by his loyal associates. as he rounded the corner of the other container to check the contents, the ambush knocked him off his guard as he falls to the ground. Only to realize excruciating and searing pain radiate from his left side, he barks the other uninjured associates to catch the assailant, ordering the last one who is chasing the man down to hold him as a captive, so he could get his hands on to kill the man himself.

Left alone and bleeding profusely onto the concrete floor, he quickly takes off his shirt to make a makeshift tourniquet. The metallic and coppery scent of blood thick in the air as his heart rate escalates, pumping blood faster as he feels the vital fluid leave him. The color on his face quickly draining as he rides through the acute pain. He doesn’t feel any organ damage, but the gash is deep enough to require stitches and being in his notoriety as a felonious drug lord, going to a hospital is an out of option. As adrenaline pumps through his brain as he stands up, the pain is barely subdued enough as he quickly rides through the traffic to reach his flat. The blood leaving a trail of his whereabouts. The only sheer willpower makes him to endure the infliction as his face becomes more pallid by the second. 

As soon as he makes into the front door of his flat, the searing pain intensifies as he becomes breathless. The sanguine fluid doesn’t gush out and pool onto the floor, but it is still leaving in small amount as his white shirt soaks in the blood. The scorching summer sun drying the blood rather quickly, the rusty pungent scent of dried and caking blood surrounds the air he breaths in and it is rather nauseous. Although he was used to smelling and witnessing other people bleed profusely and die, situating himself in this side is never entertaining. 

The trip upstairs to the fifth floor of the flat is the most grueling and herculean task that he had ever let himself to endeavor. Completely enervated and drained as he makes to the bed, he takes his leather jacket and shirt, now tainted and soaked with blood off by the side of the twin-sized bed and wraps himself with the covers. He passes out slowly as he watches the sun begins to creep up. 

The sleep is fitful at best, as he rouses with even the smallest knock. As usually heavy sleeper as he is, the continuous pain and the blood continuing to ooze from his side renders him bedridden and useless. There was a first aid kit stocked with sutures and everything necessary as this wasn’t the first time he got gravely injured. Then, instantly a stranger comes inside his flat - definitely younger, with dark curly hair with an utterly shocked expression. “Of course I fucking speak English, no goddamn ambulance, just get me a fucking first-aid and help me with the fucking stitching.” His brows raising, he observes the stranger carefully. Behind the docile facade, he never knows what lies beneath the naive expression, as trust came with a grave result. “Who the fuck are you and how did you find me?”


	2. Chapter 2

The dimmed light coming from the window didn’t give Will much of a chance to look around the room he stood in though he did notice a gun next to the twin sized bed and quickly looked away towards the bloodied clothes on the ground. He didn’t find that it was his place to ask what had happened, but still the curiosity struck him almost instantly. With a heavy sigh, he took a few more steps in, placing the single bag he carried down next to what looked like a wardrobe. 

His heels made a faint clicking sound along the wood as he moved over to grab the first aid kit, his eyes finally getting a closer look at the long gash up the man’s side. It looked bad and only made Will question himself further on why he didn’t just call an ambulance without consent. With a hesitant clear of his throat, he opened the container of medical supplies not seeing much to help with sewing up the gash. “I’ve, uhm, never really done this before. I am sure you’d prefer someone with proper medical know how.” His brows pinched together tightly before he pulled out some curved needles, finding no stitching string. That was when he moved back to his own bag grabbing the fishing wire. It was all he had, and all that could really help in the situation. To at least keep infection out and the blood in. 

“I—I wasn’t looking for you if that’s was you mean.” He licked over his bottom lip, hand shaking as he struggled to thread the needle. Bucharest was by far the most stressful place in the world currently, and it made him wish he didn’t bother to take the trip. “My name is Will,” The Empath looked up to the sun-kissed skin, admiring the way the shadows contoured the male’s chest. “Will Graham. I didn’t mean to walk in. I was looking for a room to stay, and I don’t read or speak Romanian. I figured that since the door was open maybe this room was open, though,” He turned his head to look further down the hall, shaking his head slightly. “It looks like these aren’t motel rooms but apartments.” 

Once the fishing wire was through the needle he slid down onto his knees, feeling the still wet clothes wet his knees with the other man’s blood. He could soak the pants in water when he finished. It would at least help so that the stain didn’t become too dark. “This, uhm, might sting.” With a calloused hand, Will reached forward to hold it just above the cut. His hand gently keeping the skin together tightly before he inserted the needle, turning to the first aid kit to grab the pliers, using the aid of the tool to help him stitch up the rest of the mark. Small amounts of blood bubbling up for a mere moment until he tied the end and snipped it off.

Next he grabbed a sponge and an alcohol pad. He was careful, cleaning on and around the wound to help clear it up before he grabbed some of the gauze pads, numbing ointment, and an ace bandage. “I don’t know how well that stitching will heal up, but it’s the only treatment I can offer you unless you change your mind on the hospital.” Will leaned closer, wrapping his arm around the man's back to help him sit up for a brief moment, allowing him the time to place ointment covered gauze squares to be placed onto the long wound before he began the ace bandage around the stranger’s torso. When he finished he helped the other lay back down before he pulled back, coming to the realization that he didn’t even know the man’s name. 

“You know me, and since I stitched you up I think it’s only fair… What’s your name?” Will bit his bottom lip, leaning back to rest on his bloodied hands, taking a small breath in an attempt to calm himself. This was the first man who appeared to speak fluent English, and so he didn’t feel like leaving just yet in hopes he could help him find a motel for the rest of his trip, despite how uncomfortable he felt in social situations.

_____

The second white duvet already soiled and drenched with more layers of crimson as he presses the bundle against his gaping wound, the layers of epidermal exposed and he could feel the pus coming out as well along more shallow gash around the corner of the laceration. A thin layer of sweat covering his naked torso as his drenched skin glistens with the dim light breaking through the window, his pajamas are worn and soaked wet with smears of blood and sweat. “I was ambushed. I still have that motherfucking bastard’s knife that rendered me fucking useless somewhere buried in the fucking mound of sheets and clothes. At least the bleeding is slowing down and stopping now.” Having weathered all the injuries, both minute and grave, he figures this particular one would be like any other things he had faced, but the scorching heat and the humid summer of Bucharest was taking toll on his less than healthy body. He felt like he was gambling with his own life for the first time ever. 

Huffing as he exhales a long sigh, annoyed and frustrated as all he can do to stay sane and not to pass out and get more infected by the crude treatment of his wound and his carelessness, every breath is sapping his vitality as he tilts his head. “If I am fucking suffering this motherfucking affliction instead of going to a hospital and getting this properly treated, then I’d already been in the fucking ambulance en route to the hospital, so don’t blabber your goddamn mouth and get this shit over with. It’s sink or swim.” Biting his lips as more undulating pain hits through his side, his grip on the sheet tightens as his arm tremors as the body begins to lose heat. The infection finally setting in as he profusely sweats from his hairline. “Will fucking Graham, the name doesn’t ring a fucking bell. You aren’t from around here, I assume. A tourist? There are some art museums, synagogues and palaces that are famous with those fucking people, partaking of the arts, care of the soul, Will, is that why you’re here in this fucking city.” Remarking with a mocking tone as he rolls his eyes, he lifts the sheets up as Will begins to thread the fishing wire into the curved needle.

“The fucking apartment has no sign, that’s why people make mistakes and the fucking building needs to be reconstituted, it’s fucking old and creaking everywhere.” His face furrowing and distorting as he clenches his teeth together hard, a long whimper he didn’t even think he would hear out of his mouth constricts his chest as his fingers curl tightly against the sheets. The initial sting of the prodding of his skin and the piercing sends undulating and excruciating pain to shoot through his side as the gash involuntarily spasms. The heart racing to pick up the speed as it thumps rapidly against his eardrums. Trying his absolute best to control and calm his breathing as his heart pumps blood faster at the loss and foreign object prodding his skin, the stitching feels even more grueling and drawn out as Will continues with each stitch, the movement feels as if it’s slowed down significantly. Drenched in sweat as his eyes begins to sting, his head thrashes and limply falls against already sweat-soaked pillow, grinding his teeth as he withholds the pain. “No…. Fuck. No fucking hospital. I can deal….. With the fucking pain.” Breathing in puffs as he feels the burn in his heart, his knuckles turn white as his nails dig into his flesh. He doesn’t even realize he had been holding his soft flesh on his thigh with a death grip. 

Taking a series of long exhales as he sits up with Will’s help, the contraction and spasm of his gash slowly begins to halt as more beads of sweat trickles down against his sun-kissed naked torso. The alcohol stings the raised and distorted skin as more tingling pain shoots through his body, but it definitely feels better that now a long and deep gash that had been rendering him immobile at least remains closed and the chance of him deteriorating and dying of complication drastically decreases. Mouthing a week thank you as his lips tremble and his cheeks flushed with heat creeping up towards his face, A slight tremor still renders him enervated and completely drained of his vitality and energy. 

“Nigel… Nigel Lecter.” Leaning against the headboard as he turns his face towards Will’s direction, he leans against the bleak and ugly flower-patterned wall beside him. Swallowing dry as he looks through half-shut eyes, he props with his arm and tries to get up, only to grimace as a rush of prickling sensation oscillates through his side. Winded and breathless as he collapses onto the bed in a trance-like state, his hand beckons the man to stay. “Why don’t you fucking stay here, you’d only find hostels full of fucking misfits here in this side of the neighborhood.”


	3. Chapter 3

“I came to get away.” He watched Nigel closely, making sure the ace bandage was tight enough to where it could keep pressure on the wound to prevent any more blood loss as well as keep the infection out. “I wouldn’t call myself a tourist. Bucharest was just on the list of places to go, I guess. It’s also far away from Baltimore.” A slight flashback flashed in front of his eyes revealing Garrett Jakob Hobbs’ body flinging backwards as gunshot after gunshot blew into his body, and then Abigail Hobbs lying gasping on the floor. He was sure the image wasn’t one he was every going to get out of his head. “Do you have some, uh, Aspirin… Or anything good for headaches, really?” The medication would him forget, at least for awhile. 

Will had been quick to jump up and usher Nigel back down onto the bed, shaking his head just enough to show his disapproval with the slight movement of his thick curls. He grabbed a bloodied pillow and moved it under the other’s head in order to make him more comfortable before he grabbed the other bloodied sheets, adding them to the pile at his knees. “Don’t move.” His blue eyes flicked over the wrapped abdomen before turning to look about the room, hoping he could find some more blankets. 

“Lecter.” The last name sent an odd chill up his spine as he turned back around to look into Nigel’s hazel eyes. Now that he could really gave him a look over, the resemblance to Hannibal Lecter stood out, but he struggled to say anything, shaking his head. Maybe he was seeing things. His mind was rather good at playing tricks on him. With a hesitant clear of his throat he stood up, walking across the room to grab a quilt. “You need to rest. I hope you don’t mind if I put this on you? Do you like soup? I could make you something to eat. You probably need it.” 

Graham didn’t bother waiting for a reply and instead just moved over to place the blanket on the bloodied male, bending over to /tuck/ him in just so he could get a closer look. Every part of him screamed that there before him was the twin brother to Hannibal, or the other man had just followed him across the world to end up in a pool of his own blood. “Hannibal Lecter.” He took an uneven breath before he moved back down onto his knees, no longer caring about the bloodied mess beneath him. “He’s your brother, isn’t he?” 

Will’s tongue ran over his dry lips as he ran his messy palms over the front of his thighs, feeling the blood rub off onto the coarse fabric of the jeans. His blue eyes narrowed in thought as his eyes stayed on Nigel. He would have liked to stay there, especially with the terrible state the other was in. It would also mean that he wouldn’t have to pay for his time down there, and would leave him with more money to explore if he found the mood to do so. “I’ll stay as long as you don’t move. I wouldn’t be much help if you didn’t get any rest. I can also wash these for you.” Will motioned down to the bloodied fabrics, looking over Nigel’s face once again, trying to deny himself the idea that this was a mere image of Hannibal. This man was far different.

____

The fishing line wasn’t the best thing to replace the suture lines, but at least it will hold his long gash from oozing more blood and pus and to prevent the wound from gaping and spasm. The tremor of pain replaced by a dull throbbing sensation that radiates like a wildfire, his body is still under the effect of adrenaline and his torso is flushed with heat. As he goes through each of the stitch, grueling recollection of him stifling groans to emit and feeling the chest expanding so much that it felt like exploding spins his mind as he strains to breath with full expansion of his chest. The diagonal stitches which end just above where his navel is stretches along with the contraction of his abdomen, and he can still feel the raised edge and distorted and flayed skin where the gash is deeper begins to flutter. At least the bleeding had stopped and the stitches are covered with bandages, firm and tight around the lean side.

“There are some ibuprofen pills on the counter by the island. There should be a labeled bottle.” His breathing raspy and voice throaty and reduced to a low and almost wheezing exhales, His torso tremors as more cold sweat drenches his sun-kissed skin. His silver chest hair holding onto the beads of sweat, the sunlight intensifies as a beam of strong ray directly lights across his torso. As Will moves the pillow underneath his head again, his body gradually lowers onto the soiled mattress again, his only comforting place in the room inside his rather barren bedroom. A soft hiss rattling his abdomen as his mussed and sweat drenched hair fans and drapes around like a veil in front of his face, he rakes the locks away from his face as he sinks further against the mattress. The unpleasant odor of the dried blood, that rusty coppery scent which even sends him feeling nauseous and queasy. Experiencing it from the opposite side of the spectrum wasn’t as enticing and thrilling as inflicting pain upon others and scenting the familiar metallic tang of the fresh blood. 

At Will’s expected reaction, his liquid hazel hues roll weakly as he settles further against the mattress. “Yeah, that’s the usual reaction I get with my last fucking name, so I pretend I don’t have one.” His brother still in the States, the last time he had heard from his twin was that he had recently switched his profession to become a psychiatrist. With the thought of his brother flashing through his mind, imagining how his brother would’ve turned around now that he wasn’t an ER surgeon anymore. As his vivid recollections of them inhabiting in Paris still lingering in his unconscious mind as he tilts his head to look at the younger man frantically moving around about in his flat. “I don’t fucking mind at all and even if I didn’t want, I wouldn’t be able to stop you. And yes, I’m feeling rather ravenous, so a bowl of soup would be nice. Something hearty perhaps, but I doubt you’d find anything usable in the fridge.”

Straining to speak as his low and hoarse voice slowly exits through his chapped lips, even before he begins to speak, his pallid and gaunt visage looks upward to carefully register the relative stranger’s face. Putting an arm over the blanket as his eyes concentrate on the other’s drastically different face compared to his own, more softer features with bright blue eyes that reflect the late afternoon sun. “Yeah, that would be my fucking brother, you know him? Do tell him how I’m fucking doing, if he even cares, that is. I haven’t heard from him in years, actually.” As they were in a completely different spectrum of things, with him more impulsive and volatile state of mind versus his brother’s nonchalant and stoic, the distance that his twin maintained, it was hard for him to read what his brother was thinking. 

His hand gingerly pressing against the tightly wrapped bandages around the torso, the pain assuages and subsides into a mere dull throb and his breathing eases as he gets accustomed to the pain, which feels like a close companion. “There is a coin laundry just down the block and washing these would be a fucking bitch, I’d think it would be better to buy new set of sheets than trying to clean all the fucking stains.” Wanting to go to the restroom to wash the grimes and take a piss, he slides his body off from the mattress, leveraging his torso by swinging his legs one by one. “ Dryly swallowing, he sighs long and motions his arm as he gets up with a strain, catching his breath as his head rings. “Why don’t you help me flip the fucking mattress and change the sheets? I’ll give you money to get the damned laundry done and to get me some soup. It’s called ciorba de perisoare, basically Romanian meatball soup with a sour note. The cafe downstairs sells a killer bowl with a nice loaf of bread.”


	4. Chapter 4

After placing the pillow beneath Nigel’s head, he wandered through the house until he found the kitchen. It was merely empty despite the junk food wrappers strewn about the room. His blue eyes wandered to find the bottle of medication, noting the faint white powder along the surface. It didn’t shock him and, in fact, made the image of Nigel clearer. Drugs weren’t unusual in this part of the world, and much like popular cities he was sure that there would be more to come. It appeared to be in Nigel’s nature, and if Will knew anything about wanting to hide wounds from doctors he assumed it would mean that the other’s wounds had come from a crime relatively related. 

Once he had found the bottle of Ibuprofen he poured a few white pills out onto his hand before walking back to watch the bloodied man adjust his position. His tongue rolled back when the pills were shoved in between his lips, allowing him to swallow them with ease as he listened to Nigel’s irritated tone. He wouldn’t have liked to have Hannibal Lecter as a brother either. Their first encounter hadn’t exactly been pleasant and, in fact, left him in a rather unhappy mood with Jack. He had known that the doctor was placed on the case to ensure that Will wasn’t out on the field alone. It showed in Jack’s eyes when he was introduced. He just hadn’t expected the doctor to so boldly call out his flaws. 

“I’ve met him.” Will quickly moved to help Nigel up, mentally tsking him for even bothering to move. He imagined the wet bloodied mattress was uncomfortable, but the cut across his stomach would only become more inflamed if he continued to move about. “If you think you can stand up on your own I will move the mattress myself.” Blue eyes looked just below Nigel’s avoiding his pupils on purpose. He hadn’t wanted to see what Nigel was hiding or what he felt though he imagined that the man before him was far different from his brother. 

“You’re allowing me to stay here. I think paying for sheets and soup will be the least of my worries.” He offered a half-hearted smile before licking his bottom lip. His eyes drifted over the ace bandage, picturing just how the wound must have looked bound up like that. It must have ached, and with his knowledge of what had been done in the kitchen he had wondered why Nigel hadn’t bothered to get more of his /supply/. “I imagine you could get pain medication easily?” His brow quirked, eyes drifting up just a bit more. 

Will’s calloused hands remained on Nigel’s sun-kissed skin, keeping his in an upward position. It would have been a risk to suggest such a thing, but in a way it made him feel like he had the upper hand. There would be no reason to need to feel such a way, but it helped him show that he wasn’t stupid, and even if the man was injured he didn’t want to be taken advantage of. “Lean against the wall.” He helped step Nigel back before he turned, rolling up his sleeves then he began to lift the mattress. It was far more difficult to grip, and when he finally managed it the clean unstained side was up. “There.”

____

It was easy for him to hide behind the steel wall where no light entered. Spiraling down in the void of substance abuse that had rendered him to make countless hospital emergency room visits, to clear the drug and alcohol out of his system and to run his tainted blood through dialysis. His kidney had been jeopardized, his liver trashed. Jaundiced and enervated, completely drained of his energy. On top of that and making it much worse, his physical injuries due to his reckless and careless way of living had made his body to be riddled with infections. Viral fever, ongoing complications with his wound and depression. Although he had been ambushed at the dock and there had been nothing he could’ve prevented the unfortunate endeavor to take place, but he lived like he wanted to die anytime soon. The one last string remained as he had hoped to see his estranged and distanced brother. All he had towards Hannibal had been pure hatred and contempt. Yet, he couldn’t get rid of him from his consciousness ever. Being a carbon copy of him and having spent the most glorious and memorable time of his life with his brother, it was inevitable. 

So he relied more and more on earthly goods, substances. As faint white powder lined on every smooth surface, the soot scattered around the polished hardwood floor, only his heavy boots left the mark as he had repeatedly walked in the room. Scent of smoke surrounding the room and permeated through the bleak and ugly wallpaper. Feeling of loneliness always clinging to him, that destitution had soon been replaced by the idea of abandonment. As fervently and hopelessly been in love, it was quickly stripped away from him and his heart shattered. Having Hannibal Lecter as his brother, used-to-be lover and the best friend he would never have in his life ever again. “Did he hurt you in any way. He is destructive to anyone who he loves him. Of course I wasn’t an exception. With him, it had been more psychological. Feeling of loneliness surging in like an insidious disease spreading all over the Europe like black plague had been, he carried on that vibe with him until most recently. Although he had maintained to be hopeful and optimistic about the vies of his life, having wearing a facade of a workaholic in order to pass as someone who had a zest for life. He had been blaming Hannibal for what he had been doing with his life, all the physical pain he had to endure as he inflicted pain upon himself, even though it had been his wrongdoing. 

Squirming and using his legs as leverage to slide his body downward against the mattress, the pungent odor of blood intensifies as his face contacts the sheets underneath him. Using his dominant hand to prop himself up, he manages to get himself up with a great exertion. Beads of sweat forming around his hairline and temple as they trickle down his tanned skin. A stifling heat radiates from the bandaged wound, spreading like a slow burning coal placed under the grill. The view outside, which had began to darken as shades of orange glow breaks into the window opposite him, the darkness creeping in slowly as the buildings light up, sparkling against the room, which lacks inside his flat. His gaze obscured and blurred as the surge of bleariness sweeps through his brain, his eyes grow liquid as he leans against the foot of the bed and the wall next to it. Swallowing dry as the scorching heat radiates further against his torso, his forehead and bridge of his nose furrow. Beckoning Will with his chin, it points to his cell phone carelessly thrown on the armchair along with his leather jacket. “Call one of my associates, he speaks English, he could get me fucking morphine bags and more painkillers.”

Standing up with a hand on the ledge of the window, his gaze unfocused as a bit of tear blurs the view even more. His legs aren’t supporting his weight like they should and the spasms and uncomfortable sensation of the distorted edge emitting prickling pain still makes him to groan in his usual low and guttural tone. “Is the fucking bandage waterproof? I need a goddamn bath. I don’t want to catch another fucking infection and suffer from viral fever.” His fingers curling against the cemented surface, his knuckles whiten as his chin digs into his chest, his face flushed and eyes drooping. Finally clenched shut as he grabs the bandaged side, feeling the wound throb with blood as his body still tries to get used to the foreign fishing wire that had penetrated the outer epidermal layer of the skin.


	5. Chapter 5

“I wouldn’t say either of us are in love.” Will tensed at the conversation of Hannibal, still uneasy with the man himself. “He is my unorthodox psychiatrist. There when I need him, and there when I don’t.” He raised a hand to run over his jaw, blue eyes watching Nigel as he spoke about him. It had been clear that their relationship had meant something to him, but Will could only imagine what it was like to have a brother let alone a twin. He had been an only child, and his mother had died very early on leaving him with his father who had caused him to grow up rather quickly. He had been able to make a few bucks when he was taken to the boat yard with his dad. 

Will had liked being able to fix things, and so that is what drew him into the field. It was only when they had urged him to pull the trigger at a street violation gone wrong did he realize that the field hadn’t been the place for him. He couldn’t stomach it, and refused from that day forward he would never take a life. That is when he took up teaching, hoping that teaching a class on the minds of killers could help those who had the stomach catch the men or women running free. 

“I imagine he wouldn’t be too thrilled that I left the country, but I—I had to. I got to close to a homicide, and I figured what better way to change that then leave for a relaxed vacation.” Blue eyes fell to the sheets on the ground before he gave a half-hearted smile. “As you can tell it’s been the most relaxing by far.” His voice dripped with sarcasm before he turned back to step away from the bed. 

When Nigel had motioned towards his cell phone he immediately got a thrill he couldn’t describe. It was near anxiety, but also a taste of something different. “You want me to call your /associate/. Someone who knows about your injuries and doesn’t know of an American boy like myself? I assume you would want me to go collect as well? What makes you think I wouldn’t end up in the same position you are let alone turn you in?” Will arched a brow quickly, unable to help himself from strolling across the room to grab the flip phone. 

Immediately he saw the difference from his own phone. He turned back to Nigel, watching him stare out of the window. “The bandage isn’t waterproof. If you want to take a bath you’ll only be able to take a sponge bath. At least for the next few days. It will keep bacteria from entering the wound.” Will walked over to meet him, watching the city. It had actually been a decent view though he only wished Nigel would lay back down so he wouldn’t risk passing out. 

Will placed the cell phone down next to Nigel’s hand, the tip of his pinky accidentally brushing the surface of the sun-kissed hand before he turned away and motioned towards the door. “I can get that soup now. What was it called?”

____

Hannibal as the topic of conversation had him in a weird position. The wall around him he had built upon fortified and strengthened more, in an almost defensive way. Deep inside his subconsciousness, he knew he still loved his twin, no matter what he had done to him spite of love. He knew his brother more than anyone else in the world, through and through, perhaps not the most deepest part even though he had tried to probe open. They were at their core with each other, stripped of all the outer layers that they used as self-defense mechanism. His had been his outwardly violent and brutal demeanor that drove him away from making genuine friends. His characteristics fared well in his profession, maintaining his status as one of the most savage and notorious underground king of all. Now rendered weakened and injured, like a caged animal looking to be released to the wild once again.

It was hard to get away from Hannibal’s influence. When he had been with him, he had felt his brother’s influence and demeanor rubbing off against him without him even realizing it. The graceful movements he had picked up, different than his usual stomping and loud steps, he moved like a feline cat, a snake ready to strike when he had been engaged into countless melee fights. His hazel eyes penetrating and almost all-seeing, observant as to find the opponent’s flaws and weaknesses. Hannibal Lecter, the all-encompassing, twisted and brilliant mind. Those who termed his brother ‘monster’ only saw him as a one-dimensional layer of person suit. Human veil that he puts on outside the house. 

The late afternoon sun upon him as he almost longingly and wistfully looks up, the blinding sun upon his languid and slightly liquid hazel hues as he shades his face under a hand. “So you adapted to Hannibal’s method of killing, transforming the rude into an artwork, a tableau of some sorts. Followed by evolving your design as Hannibal joined you to create that fucking piece of work, it’s a presentation in itself and then I’m sure you became him as your goddamn empathetic brain of yours took control. That’s how you become a killer. I had never killed a man myself until I had partaken in creating one of the murders early on in my teen years.” A roll of his eyes, a hint of maliciousness flashing as his head tilts, half in broad sunlight and the other half in shadows. Making him look almost ethereal and floating. Split in half, angelic and demonic side of him radiating. 

“If you don’t fucking trust me and would prefer to text him instead, mimic my fucking language and tell him to bring his fucking ass over here. I’m sure you have a brain of a man to get that done, yes?” Groaning as he takes a faltering step, he wobbles for a bit, but manages to hold onto the wall opposite him to prop himself, slowly sauntering off to the kitchen. Each step takes his breath away as a sharp acute pain radiates and scorching heat takes over his entire torso. Beads of sweat trickling down on his tanned flesh, clinging onto tuft of chest hair as he walks. Pouring himself a glass of water, he takes the ibuprofen pills himself, swallowing dry, then washing them down with lukewarm water. “He doesn’t know that I’m hurt, you can provide a suitable explanation for me.” Coughing and grabbing the bandaged side as he makes his return, he almost collapses on the way towards the window with thundering heart. “Fine, then help me with the fucking sponge bath later when I’m caught up with breathing.” Straining to speak as his gaze falls downward as the bustling cafe of late afternoon, the sun begins to set slowly as the horizon paints in warm tones.

Turning to face Will with half-shut eyes, he growls and grabs the cell, texting away as to bring him bags of morphine and pills, arranging the meeting down at the cafe. Giving him Will’s description, it should be easy. His legs giving away as the muscles tremble, he leans limply against the wall opposite him, slouching against the flipped over mattress. “Ciorba de perisoare. Just tell the owner the fucking meatball soup, he’d know. Tell him Nigel sent you and wait for my associate, he’ll be in all black with a small satchel in his hand.” Shooing Will away with a flick of his hand, his face furrows in pain as the last trace of painkillers he had in his system completely wears off.


	6. Chapter 6

“Adapted?” Will shook his head. He hadn’t really taken up the art since Hannibal left him bloodied on the floor next to Abigail Hobbs. At first he had crossed the country intending to find the doctor once again, but a rare mix-up at the airport sent him to Bucharest, and so far he had no complaints though the ghost like face of the psychiatrist in front of him was unpleasant. “I don’t kill, and the only time I did was self-defense. I sent someone to kill your brother he sent someone to kill me. An eye for an eye.” 

Will’s blue eyes looked over the city, admiring the darkening shadows as he heard Nigel’s fingers running across the screen of his phone to text his partner. Will wasn’t entirely sure how comfortable he imagined he would be waiting to get drugs for the injured man, knowing that the drug business was one filled with danger. Nigel was a living example from that. A shift in his gaze left him watching as the drug lord slid onto the mattress. 

The shift in the mood left Will scrambling out the door and back downstairs where he felt highly uncomfortable. When he had asked the cashier for the meatball soup he was given a lazy stare before she rang him up. From the glance, he assumed that it wasn’t uncommon for tourists to request such things, and with his American accent he knew that that was how they saw him. Some poor boy who didn’t bother to learn the appropriate language before traveling. After he paid he was handed a paper bag with the soups and loafs of bread. 

Nigel’s associate had been quick, coming up to Will, and /bumping/ him as he dropped the satchel at his feet. At first Will had been confused before he remembered that inside that bag was exactly what the man upstairs had requested, and so with an awkward shuffle he grabbed the brown satchel and swung it over his shoulder. Fingers gripping the paper bag tightly in hopes that his own shaking wouldn’t have been that noticeable. When he managed to make it back up to the apartment he tossed the satchel onto the flipped mattress, turning around and locking the door before he shook the eerie feeling. 

“There. Got your damned stuff.” His chest raised with a small pant, nearly laughing at his own shaken up attitude as he placed the soup onto the nearest clear surface, noticing more of the white powder. “Why do you do it?” Will’s brow quirked upwards, glancing around the room until he finally looked at Nigel. His question, of course, referred to the obvious drug that had covered nearly every surface in the apartment. “Is it the boost in adrenaline or the sensation of knowing you probably got it for free? That’s what you do isn’t it? You sell drugs on the street. Your man downstairs didn’t even bother looking at me. People usually only do that with the alpha of the pack. Are you the alpha, Nigel?”

____

With a curious tilt of his head, a sly smirk stretches the corner of his lips. “Fucking adapted, I stand by what I said. Hannibal kills with his own hands and a scalpel. Knowing the fucking medical doctor he was before becoming a renowned psychiatrist. He prefers to use his own hands, because it’s more intimate. Have you seen that fucker’s eyes fade under your hands, the irises darkening and becoming still as the last view from the face of the earth had been you. That gives you thrill. Perhaps more of an aphrodisiac. It’s almost fucking erotic.” He had seen the leaked picture of his brother on TattleCrime, the distinctive stitches on both of the wrists. Not as an ugly of a scar than his gash on the side, now stitched up with a fucking fishing line. “Was that poor fucker one of Hannibal’s patients? He sure does have a particularly exceptional talent in manipulating people.” 

Sensing Will’s dramatic shift in mood and watching him scurry off the flat, his chest lifts with a dark chuckle as he struggles to lift himself up. His legs gingerly swing around the foot of the bed and an arm reaches for the metal foot board of the bed, the intricate patterned railing, similar to the one on the ledge of the balcony not too far away from the twin-sized bed. Once he props himself up with relative ease than the first time, he grunts in pain as the wound continues to be a nuisance. He had somewhat gotten used to the searing pain, but it is the hindrance of the movement that he is vexed the most. 

Taking out a cigarette from crushed pack, it is the last smoke from it. An exasperated sigh tearing out from his tightly clenched lips, he longingly looks out the window, a chromatic shades of red and golden hues paint the sky, even more deeper than ever before. The sun merely reduced to a small circle in the horizon. Languidly puffing the smoke as he wistfully ponders, the better chapters in his dramatic life. Although he was making a large sum of money at times and he had own place to call home, this home felt transient. The city didn’t agree with him. He wouldn’t dare to go back to Paris, where he had felt abandoned by his brother. Although there were his associates disposed in the States and he had been there on business trips occasionally, but not heard an ounce of him. His brother had tried to contact him, but he reluctantly but decisively refused, as forgiveness still was a foreign concept to him after three decades. 

Observing Will’s less than composed face, face slightly flushed and the movement flustered. His gaze lowering onto the brown satchel from Will’s facade, he inspects the contents inside the well-worn leather vessel, which they had used countless times to transport unsanctioned goods and firearms. Crushing the stub inside already half-full ashtray and turning his full attention to the IV bag full of morphine and thin transparent tubes with clean needles. Few empty syringes with small bottles of painkillers. And two heavy bags of coke. His face beams immediately after watching the contents, taking everything out on the mattress as if he was savoring the moment to put some of them in his cache. 

“Why the fuck do you think I’m doing it? I do it for the rush of sensations, it makes me to forget that I’m this fucking despicable human being who had been abandoned and felt loneliness all his damn fucked up life.” His tone distant, but cold, he retrieves a syringe and rips the plastic off with his teeth. Expertly sticking the needle inside one of the morphine bottles, he injects the drug right up on his arm, through one of the fat veins. A satisfied sigh lifts his chest as he squeezes his fingers into a fist, almost immediately feeling the drug’s effect. With a mere raise of his brows, his forehead furrows deeper, then a cruel smirk stills his expression. “Do I fucking look like a mere juvenile delinquent you see on the goddamn streets? Selling the fucking coke is their puny little job. I don’t sell by mere fucking bags, by goddamn containers, Will. You could call me the goddamn alpha or whatever, but on the streets, I’m known as the notorious drug lord of Bucharest.” Inching close to the table and lifting the brown bag, he tears the crusty bread and bites on porous middle part. “You can fucking have this.”


	7. Chapter 7

There was wince and then a drop of disgust across Will’s face as he watched Nigel press the needle full of morphine into his arm. He had never been fond of needles himself, knowing full well that the pressured sting along his skin would go away nearly instantly, but his imagination betrayed him and exaggerated the sight. With a curl of his lips, he turned away and looked to the other side of the room, pressing his back further against the apartment door. The cool feeling pressing into his spine felt relaxing, bringing him back to reality. 

“You’re not planning on playing drug lord while you’re wounded, are you?” Will’s question didn’t come out until he had turned back, finding relief to see that Nigel was done poking and prodding himself. His blue eyes almost immediately turned down to see the bags of coke, finding it far more unappealing when it wasn’t small fragments of dust along the apartment furniture. It held a far more dangerous effect when it was right there in front of them. “Tell me, how did you get started?” 

His tongue dragged across his bottom lip as he took hesitant steps towards the bag of food, taking some of the bread from Nigel’s grasp. His pale thumb accidentally brushing over the sun-kissed knuckle. A glance of Will’s own eyes causing a peak of interest at the contrast between them. He had admired visible differences in people. It made it easier to disassociate himself from someone else. With a glint in his eyes, he raised his glance, raising the pieces of bread up to his lips so he could part them and tear a piece off with a harsh bite into the bread. There was a resistance in the crust, but the moment his teeth broke through they slipped through the middle. It tasted far better than he imagined it would have. 

Will moved back to lean against the wall, relaxing into the frame as he took another bite. It hadn’t come to his realization that he had been hungry. Every part of him wanted and needed to find somewhere to stay. It was only irony and probably destiny that he was tugged towards another Lecter, now stuck in the predators stare. Hannibal had been elegant, smooth, and striking with everything he did. Nigel was less calculated. His hands had proved it. There was dried blood, but underneath that Will could see the bits of gun residue, telling him that this drug lord had recently shot some form of a revolver. It proved his point that the twin didn’t care if he was sloppy. There was no reason to do everything precise. 

“Was Hannibal Lecter’s manipulation what brought you to kill? Is that why you use a gun instead? You know it would displease him to find that you’re not being intimate?” Blue eyes fell shut as he lulled his head back, the sharp angle of his jaw becoming outlined with the settling sun peeking through the window. It was a new contrast, one that showed his entire frame with an angelic glow. “He’s broken you, and now here I am a grim reminder that he’s still out there away from you.” A small breath passed through his lips, “Is that why you don’t bother hiding the fact that you’re using a sickening amount of drugs? Do you crave the idea of death? You want it to wash over you, but you refuse to let someone like the man who cut you up to be the one to bring it to you. Do you want to have control over what happens?” 

Will raised his head, turning his gaze back onto you as he took another bite from the bread. “You should be laying down. You’re going to collapse if you keep pushing yourself.”

____

Slouched against the steel frame of the bed and tapping another fat vein on the crook of his elbow, he watches the vein respond under his fingers. A bit of blood seeps out from the previous injection. After repeating the procedure, pulling the syringe out from the plastic packet, more morphine shoots through his bloodstream, the searing and prickling pain merely reduced to heat resonating from his side. In his pain scale, barely nothing, but his body was still in overdrive, sweat trickling down the crook of his neck, all the way down to the dip of his spine and his chest. 

Snorting the coke would jeopardize tearing off the makeshift stitches as fishing line weren’t made to hold onto separated layers of flesh like the proper suture would. Oblivious to Will’s question, or more correctly, his words becoming mere white noise against his eardrums, the white powder becomes coarse to fine in a haste. His deft movement with the razor, his eager expression all too prominent. The mere thought of having the angel dust in his system quickens his heartbeat. Taking out the meatball soup, he halves all the meat. He knows how they tasted like; it was a go-to place for him when he felt like he was eating each meal out of necessity, rather than cravings or out of ravenousness that he used to feel when he wasn’t bedridden like this. An alternative method would do.

“I don’t even know when, since my brother and I escaped from the orphanage and drifted to Paris, it was always there. That fucking white powder. Used to steal from people to get by, then began selling my own stuff.” His hazel hues darting across the bedroom as the setting sun paints orange and golden streaks across the hardwood floor. What he did in his pastime wasn’t a secret, his grand scheme worked in garnering much more money than petty pilfering did, but his body suffered. Hannibal and he fought over, but the outcome had been always the same. No matter how self-destructive it was and they both hurt physically and emotionally as well, it was their core financial mean to let them have a roof over his head. Feeling a staggering amount of responsibility, whether he got bruised, battered and beaten from the ‘clients’ from the endeavors, he had been more or less content. It lacked genuine intimacy, but at least he didn’t feel abandonment which he feared so much. 

Dipping the halves into the white powder, he picks up the speed, hoping to get the high, so that he could escape from this shithole. No one to call a close friend out of all the people he knew. His relationships all had been transient. Fleeting ones that come and pass by, or turned enemies. Now with a still relative stranger, who had been involved with none other than his goddamn brother. Of course, his first kill would have to be influenced by his brother. He exerted violence and hurt people long before Hannibal ever did, but he hadn’t killed and their first kill had been the most intimate one it had ever been. Perhaps more crude and imperfect, compared to his brother’s more recent kills that looked like a performance piece. Cruel, merciless, twisted but aesthetically beautiful. 

“You’d be correct, guns lack intimacy. That’s why I prefer to use it. There’s no fucking reason to get my fucking hands dirty when it comes to killing.” Sweeping all the dust from the table and putting inside the soup, he guzzles down the coke-infused liquid. His chin pointing up and staring at the ceiling, his lips wistfully parts. “I broke myself and he was the mean to quicken the process. I do drugs in order to snatch the futile euphoria. All the excruciating pain reduced as all reduces to ethereal sensation. I don’t fucking want to die, not yet, all the suffering and torment makes me feel alive.” Straightening himself, like a frantic whose conduct borders upon madness, he leans up against the table. “You’d better get your own fucking bowl of soup and proper suture. This fucking thing isn’t gonna hold up.”

Who the fuck cares, there’s no one beside me. I can be raw and careless, debauched, reckless and volatile as I damn fucking please.


	8. Chapter 8

Idiot. The words rang through Will’s head as he watched the sloppy behavior of the Lecter twin in front of him. He had no doubt in his mind that the meat would have a sour tang to it after being dragged across the fluffy white powder. When the Coke was fully collected on top of the meatball it changed into a clumpy red making the Empath’s stomach churn even more with disgust. He had his fair share of imagining the effects of drugs, almost tried it for himself when he was in high school. It would have been an easy escape from his ignorant father. Instead he put all of his thoughts into his studies, picturing what it would be like to finally move away and have the life he had hoped his mother would have wanted for him. 

Blue eyes dragged back to the now contaminated soup, giving a soft shake to his head. “I think I’ve lost my appetite.” The tip of his tongue was quick to wet his bottom lip as he watched Nigel with an undeniable displeased expression. He had thought going on this trip would have resulted in relaxation, but instead he couldn’t himself from feeling overworked. Will do this. Will do that. Surely his rude thoughts would subside, but until then he imagined being nothing more than a Cinderella stuck caring for the stupid man in front of him. 

The smell from the meatball soup made him sick, his face paling in a quick comparison to the wall as he settled his gaze on the darkening room in front of him. Soon it would have been pitch black except for the lights seeping in through the window pane. It would have created an interesting glow amongst the book shelves and ruined twin sized bed. With a strange realization, his eyes fell back onto the bed, imagining where exactly he was going to sleep. The floor seemed like the most reliable option, seeing as he saw no couch or really much of any suitable furniture around. 

“There would be no point in cutting the fishing wire free from your wound now, it would only invite infection in, that is if there isn’t any already.” Will crossed his arms over his chest, feeling the subtle effect of the ibuprofen lessening his headache. It was about time. If he would have waited any longer he doubted that he would be able to relax with the throbbing that only seemed to echo throughout his thoughts. 

A subtle gaze rested on Nigel, admiring the golden hue to his skin as he thought back to Hannibal. Back to the kitchen. It had been a horrible night, one that had struck him full of nightmares for weeks on end. It was only when he had decided to check himself out of medical care and travel across the world did he realize he no longer had control. Control was a made up word for fools. People who craved control would be struck down nearly immediately. 

He blinked, feeling the heavy weight take hold of his eyelids as he slowly slid down the wall. His ass coming into contact with the cool ground almost seconds after he began his decent. He was tired. Exhausted from holding up his own end, and even with the drug lord injured he couldn’t help but feel a form of release. He no longer would have to hold his own head up, there would be someone there to keep his thoughts in order, and if Will’s empathy had to be any help he could see that the twin had no intention on tearing him apart. 

“You need to take a bath soon. Get all the dried blood off. I would suggest going to bed afterward, but it appears you’ll be up for a while imagining shit.” He tilted his jaw to the side, giving a faint yawn before he forced his eyes back open. “Where can I lay my head down for sleep?”

____

The meatball soup already having the sour tang from a generous squeeze of the fresh lemon juice which made this particular Romanian traditional soup more unique than any other ones out there. Feeling rather ravenous as his draining energy had completely sapped from him, about to be ran out of his batteries. The white clumped balls of halved meatballs and adulterated broth thick with angel dust. The fine residue gathered around the bottom of the bowl as he devours the clumps of vegetables and guzzles all the broth, he pours some water inside the bowl and watches all the powder dissolve into the water, which in turn, he chugs it down with a decisive gulp. His chin pointing upward, his adam’s apple bobs rhythmically as his bloodshot eyes gaze unfocused onto the ceiling. 

It had been an easy way to escape from the pain and depression. Much animalistic and impulsive, raw and crude. His body had been used to the prolonged use of substances. Searching for the euphoric high that he didn’t experience in his real life, especially after how he had been reduced to being a wounded animal confined into the cage of his squalid pigsty. He knows he can’t play both sides of the spectrum. Some would consider him the protagonist of the story, while most of the people, including some turned against him in spite of his relentless schemes that most often worked to his benefits and had him garner much more money than any other people could. He hadn’t been strategic or carefully planning type, but having been in this shrewd business all his life, he knew he relished and even enjoyed the high-risk heists and smugglings that would, in return high-profiting for his business. Dauntless when he needs to be, headstrong and unrelenting most of the times, his words carried more strength without raising the decibel for it. Some of his admirers fell for his irresistible charm, while the others despised him for those tactics.

The drug in his system would take at least half an hour before it would begin to take on its effect. Since he couldn’t snort it down, his much preferred method of injecting the white powder. He needs that euphoric high, albeit fleeting and transient. If none other means to achieve it existed, this had been the most sure way, although it made him especially restless and he had bouts of spiralling towards depression and even suicidal thoughts, that clutch for immediate high had been too magnetic and irresistible. Proven by the dilated pupils now containing more of the orange and golden glow of the fading sunset, soon, his pupils contain the darkness that consumes the dank and dim flat. 

With the added effect from the morphine, the contrasting effects of both the drugs have his heart palpitating, the ventricles thumping up to his throat and is about to jump off from his ribcage. The acute prickling pain subsided into a mere dullness that radiates from his left side, his matted and long ashen locks veil his sharp cheekbones as he props himself up by an arm, leveraging with it to bend his legs, getting up is much more easier than when he did not too long ago. 

“Getting fucking infections or not, who the fuck cares, at least the fucking wound is not bleeding as much now and I don’t feel that fucking pain.” At least the morphine would significantly assuage his pain for half a day and sleeping would be easy, except now he’d be seeing and imagining ‘shits’ according to Will’s words. Those were often not pleasurable in both parts. Mainly it had been feeling of defeat, letting his defenses crumble down so easily. He had been on the verge of stoning when the evisceration took place and although he had thanked the drug for making the most excruciating pain reduced into throbbing prickling pain for the amount of blood that had been spilling down on the floor and not losing his consciousness then. 

Retrieving a bottle of hooch from the kitchen counter, he wets some of the most cleanest rag he could find over on the foot of the bed, out of all the rumpled heaps which had been soiled and caked with various stages and degrees of dried and wet blood. Some still dripping wet as he wipes the trickling blood clean. Giving a careless wipe as the burn passes through the distorted and flayed edges of the torn skin, he wobbles towards the bathroom as his left foot cannot make full contact with the floor as his wound begins to spasm. “I think your fucking ass is already down on it.” There was no fucking way in hell he was going to relinquish his bed to the stranger, although he had been a great help, or if he passed out inside the bathtub, then he wouldn’t have any problem giving up his bed. The latter option the most likely to happen as he fills the bathtub with steamy water, letting the liquor percolate through his bloodstream along with all the other crap that had been running through him wouldn’t be a bad idea at all.


	9. Chapter 9

The wood felt cold. It gave off an old worn feeling, but the paint on the walls showed that the apartment had recently been redone. Will imagined that it was because a drug dealer much like the one swaying in front of him may have been there before, or at least a druggie. It would have gotten rid of any trace of what had gone on behind closed doors. He shifted his foot, pulling it up closer to his body, the floor creaking at the slow movement. 

“You’re not interested in what I have to say, are you?” Curls bounced with the lift of his head, listening to the bath beginning to fill. “I remember telling you that taking a bath with a wound like that would only cause complications. You need a sponge bath.” A calloused hand ran over the front of his face, wiping away the slightly irritated expression that seemed to take hold of his nerves. Being a teacher in the past had brought Will to begin to expect others to listen to him. Especially if they had asked his advice. 

The wood creaked again in protest, bringing Will to draw himself up, ignore the sound of scuffs from his shoes leaving evidence that he had been there. His hand pressed back behind against the wall, steadying himself before he looked at the empty bowl of soup on the table. The hungry ache in his stomach was the last thing on his mind, especially with hearing Nigel move about the bathroom like a drunken idiot. 

It didn’t take long for him to appear in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Sit down. I’ll grab a rag to clean you up. Don’t get in the tub. If you do I will leave you here on the spot, perhaps call the police in the process.” His body tensed just slightly, blue eyes following the sun-kissed man eagerly, waiting for him to make one mistake so he would have to end up becoming useful in some way or another.

____

Slouched with a foot each hanging off the edge of the bathtub, the one inside the steamy water which immediately fogs up the surrounding air and the ceiling above it. His battered, lassitude and enervated body seems to melt along with the filling water, the desire to sink into the water ever growing as more of his leg slips inside the heat, grime melting away and muscles completely lax in an instant. “I’m already fucking infected and I’ve had enough of complications with my fucking scars already to know what I am facing. If you are to give me one, why is your fucking ass on the floor?” His sharp gaze shoots back across the threshold of the bedroom, as he glares through the open door of the bathroom.

It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate this relative stranger has done for him. Procuring the most imminent thing he had needed, morphine and drugs to keep his system in check. However fleeting and short-lived the euphoric high is, it is the only clutch that he held onto. Everything in his life had been ephemeral and momentary, the people who he trusted, relied upon, worked with and most importantly, loved. “I recall from our fucking conversation your fucking profession wasn’t a medical doctor? Considering those fucking hands weren’t so gentle - ohh, swirls..” Watching his legs give out as they start to get heavy, he realizes that he had been wearing his soiled jeans that had various degrees of stale and rusty blood all over them, the flakes melting inside the water. 

Pink water surrounds his view as his sweat and the drops falling from the ceiling lands on the heavy denim. “I think I’m fucking bleeding again, are my fucking stitches torn? Dracului rahat ! Uită-te la tot dracului sânge…” His low and even more husky voice trailing off as his head slacks against the edge of the bathtub, his less than deft hand fumbles to remove his buckles. His lips curling up in an arch as his cheek plumps, his characteristic smirk widened as a rattling chuckle lifts his slow beating heart. 

As soon as the belt curves along his narrow hips, the jeans come off in a sweep of his arms, his forehead creased and furrowed as the skin on his stitched side curves and folds. Soon, the high from the drug kicks in and he feels as if he’s floating, his corporeality doesn’t feel like it’s under his control. His jeans half-off and forming a hard mass under his knees, Will’s face splits and spins in circle, seeing three heads before coming to a clear focus. His unfocused and bleary eyes searching frantically as a hand presses and slips against the edge, unceremoniously hitting his head against the tiled wall. “Fucking shit!” Slipping inside the tub as his hips sink and submerge under the steamy water, his sweat drenched ashen hair fling across his furrowed face, his bloodshot and tired eyes wavering around Will’s face as he sinks further inside the pink water, swirling as the water rises, some spilling over the white porcelain as it drains and swirls down as his foot knocks the chain that connects the tub’s drainage system.

“Mă simt ca un zmeu nenorocit în interiorul unei tornade…” His parted and chapped lips straining to speak, the stimulant and depressant acts as a deadly combination of speedball. As the intense rush wears off quickly, his body, which had been pushed further than what he could take, gives out. His long wet locks draped over and creating a veil across half of his face, he passes out in almost a trance-like state, not quite unconscious, but his half-shut eyes blank and emotionless.


	10. Chapter 10

In a matter of five minutes, there were at least a dozen emotions that had spread across Will’s face. Some of those being irritation, anger, and then confusion. Nigel’s mother language catching him off guard almost instantly. He hadn’t been prepared to come to Bucharest for the main reason that he didn’t speak Romanian, and now that he was faced in a situation where he couldn’t understand a word that was coming from the drug lord’s blubbering mouth, he was at a loss. 

“You’re nothing like your brother.” Will finally managed to say, coming in closer, groaning when he stepped on the soggy jeans, feeling the water seep through the hole in the bottom of his shoe. He felt his brows pinch together in irritation, but kept the rude remark to himself, reaching out to grab Nigel’s wrist, feeling it with the tips of his fingers. When he managed to find a pulse he felt some form of relief spreading over him. The man had simply drugged himself into a trance-like state. 

“Here.” Will rolled up his sleeves, grabbing onto Nigel’s slick shoulders. It became a challenge immediately when he worked to get the man to sit up straight. What made it worse was when he had to focus on keeping Nigel in an upright position while he blindly fumbled around in the porcelain tub until he managed to find the water stopper. “Fuck,” He grunted, laying the drugged up man back down. 

When the water began to drain he was able to get a closer look at the stitching over the man’s sun-kissed side. The fishing line was still holding up, and, in fact, all the blood in the tub was just what had begun to wash off. Will thought about leaving to go pick up correct stitching materials but found that it would be far too dangerous to leave Nigel with himself at the moment. 

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself. You’ve made an idiot out of yourself, and not I’m not even sure what you’re trying to say.” Huffs presses his head down against his wet forearm. “You’re an idiot.” 

____

His bloodshot and filmy eyes drifting off as they roll backwards, he feels like he’s floating on thin layer of water, as if he’s on the Dead Sea. At least there, he wouldn’t have to control his own body to be submerged in his own thoughts. Behind his closed eyes as his chin digs into his chest, flimsily as a rag doll, the consistant pain becomes something distant and foreign. A mirage. Nonexistent, but he can feel it’s still there on his body. Will’s voice echoes and bounces off everywhere in his head, multiplied hundredfold and etches in his neurons. 

All the comparisons that he had made of his brother and himself. Three fucking minutes older, Hannibal Lecter excelled at everything that he did. Even when he had been the one to keep their asses off from constantly beat down from bullies and made more money by illegitimate ways, selling narcotics he had stolen, pilfering off those who rolled in riches and whenever the opportunity presented, he would pleasure his ‘clients’ to make large wads of money in one single night. Basically, doing everything he could, whatever the means to achieve it to get them warm, sheltered and fed. 

That had been the time when he had learned to escape and zone out from the world, by mixing drugs. For him, coke’s euphoric high had been too fleeting and short-lived and he had gotten himself into fights, mostly protecting his brother, but in out of spite and anger as well. That introduced him to morphine early on and not having realized how fatal and potent the accumulation of those two can cause on his heart and liver, he had started to experiment. Thankfully, his brother’s presence had been somewhat of a balance, a clutch too his stability and a spurt of creativity. With that gone, he had been an uncontrollable animal broken loose, wrecking a havoc upon himself and others. Some revered his recklessness, others called it moronic and hated him for it, which made him to be seen as the notoriously cruel and violent drug lord who couldn’t be restrained. 

Something akin to a low growl rattles from his chest, as if he was a tranquilized predator, too weak to move but still having the animosity towards whoever rendered him in the helpless position. Only that person who he could blame is himself, but that wasn’t going to be the case. “That fucking seems to be everyone’s assessment. Congratulations to having a fucking functional brain, I was sure there was something useful in there.” With a scornful tone, his head tilts to look up at Will.

As soon as Will tries to sit his lax body straightened up, the spot on his head he previously had hit against the tile begins to radiate pain and his forehead furrows, an annoyed expression taking over his facade. “I’m a fucking torn up kite with the foundation left and I still fucking feel like I’m whirling round inside the tempest.” His slender fingers slide off the porcelain tiles, his blood still coming out in drops as few drops of water stain in pink hues. “Just leave this fucking idiot alone, it’s not the first fucking time anyways.”


	11. Chapter 11

Will didn’t bother raising his head from its position on his forearm, instead he allowed Nigel to go on his rant before he finally reached out with a calloused hand, running it along the sun-kissed shoulder in a soothing manner. “Stop.” The word rolled off his tongue with haste, bringing the silence around him to feel heavy on his back. He knew his words strikes a nerve with the drug intoxicated man in front of him though he had no intention on retreating them. In his mind, Nigel was being an idiot. He was seriously injured and brought some stranger who managed to stumble into his apartment in to begin sewing him up. Not to mention he didn’t even bother listening to a word Will said.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do. I’m not in the mood to fight with you over what’s best with your damaged side. It doesn’t appear that my opinion matters anyway. If I left you’d find yourself dead, probably by drowning in this very tub.” His hand retreated from Nigel’s shoulder, blindly running over the porcelain tub now. The glassy texture made the roughness of his hands stand out more than they had before, making Will immediately retreat his pale hand with a sickened feeling rising in his stomach.

When he finally decided to raise his head from his forearm his blue eyes rested on Nigel’s broken appearance, slightly surprised that even then he didn’t see Hannibal Lecter there before him, but more a beautiful bird with a broken wing. Nigel was vulnerable, and even with his attitude, Will Imagined, that even he knew it was true.

“I can go make your bed comfortable. Do you think you can handle staying still for five minutes? If you plan to get up tell me now. I don’t want to see you fall down again. You need your rest. I can help you out of the tub.”

____

A hand on his shoulder hadn’t been something he expected and had been an out of blue, as his bloodshot downward gaze stares at the hand that moves across the broad plane of his shoulder blade. His opposite arm swings like a pendulum to grip Will’s wrist in his mind, but his body refuses to listen to his command. His veiny hands weakly curling into a fist as it hangs loosely against the porcelain tub, it soon slips down onto his contracting abdomen, the livid bruise around the darkened flesh intensifies as the water seeps into the gaping opening of the gash.

Instinctively leaning into the calloused touch the one-syllable word that had been spat in rather quickened manner breaks the heavy silence and the sound of his shallow and slow breathing ringing against his eardrum. His gaze unblinking still, but his eyelids begins to feel heavy as the high of the drug quickly wears off. The contrasting effect of the drug is short-lived and the floating and weightless feel too fleeting. His slightly filmy eyes darting around his less than toned body, now his body looks slightly emaciated and the usually sculpted muscles have atrophied for a bit with disuse. At least his torso looked more defined with less fat on them. The coke-dipped meatballs and the greasy broth having been the first ‘real’ meal he’d had in over a week.

An arch of his spine sends his chin to tilt upward, as his intense orbs match the texture of the slippery porcelain tub, now painted with smears of pink tones beneath his damp body. His toes curling in attempt to bend his knees and to prop himself, but his legs seem to be outside of his jurisdiction. How did he even end up here? _I’m fucking messed up and trashed, so perhaps it wouldn’t be a fucking bad idea to submerge under the water, my own fucking mess of a fluid and slowly extinguish, without even realizing I’m dying rapidly._

How did he even end up here? All and all, his recklessness and his flippant demeanor had been a thin veil of self-defense mechanism. Masking the wounded animal he really is, Either people would steer away from his crude and violent demeanor or they’d just accept who he is, seeing only the outwardly layer he presents himself with. Misconstrued and misunderstood. No one would ever possibly try to comprehend him, or better, he had been driving whoever who got too close away. Like an insidious drink that is easy on the throat, his volatile and predictable personality had him blend with his profession. And without him even realizing it, he had been spiralling down to being the irremediable cokeaholic.

Enveloped and deep in gloom, his gaze lift and his characteristically low baritone voice emits, sounding more like it had been dragged across the graveled ground. “I thought you were going to give me that fucking sponge bath.”


	12. Chapter 12

The bathroom had begun to fill with humidity, most likely from the heated water that just so happened to envelop Nigel’s body. It had made the sun-kissed skin glisten under the sparse light, making the whole scene appear slightly angelic, and it probably would have if it weren’t for the pink stained bath. Despite Nigel’s wounds, he was undeniably handsome, something straight out of a romance novel. Will almost hated himself for even coming up with the idea of it, but once he had begun to see him in that fashion the visual wouldn’t leave. The idea was almost hysterical, seeing as most of the covers pictured a man with a rose in his mouth a damsel in distress draped over his arm. 

“The majority of the dried blood is gone now. It would be ideal in your case to let your body rest. I can prepare a sponge bath for you in the morning. Right now the drugs have made you less than helpful.” Will’s jaw tightened as his words stopped. Blue eyes wandered over the man’s form one last time, finally resting on his face. Despite not having any medical knowledge he could tell from just looking at Nigel that the drugs had done something to him, almost all life had vanished from his face, and he had begun to slowly look sickly. 

With a soft sigh, the empath stepped forward, brushing ashen locks from the sweat covered forehead before the back of his hand pressed to the skin, feeling for any trace of a fever. “It may be in your best interest if we call a doctor. You’re burning up.” His pink tongue ran across his bottom lip before he eyes became soft, bringing his hand away. “I know that you wouldn’t prefer that so instead you’ll be stuck with me. We’ll need to get you out of this bath into your bed. Then I’ll get a cold wet rag. It’ll have to be switched frequently until your fever breaks.” He paused, looking over the other’s face again until his eyes met the hazel. “I’m sorry for before, Nigel. You’re not an idiot. You just handle this situation like one.”

____

It’s not surprising to register Will’s comment about his forehead burning up, considering how careless he had been with his own body for the past few days, especially now that his immune system’s defense had been stripped down with all those infections. It wasn’t even between the seasons and in the height of warmth surrounding his almost naked body, the steam still rising from the tainted water. The triumvirate of blood, sweat and tears concocting and the lingering scent of them still clinging onto the tanned skin. His ashen locks draping over his angular face as they fan around the face against the tiled wall and the porcelain tub, the late afternoon light begins to recede back as celestial bodies begin to litter the sky. The shade moving down to grace Nigel’s form as he shifts his hips, chucking out of the tight black boxers that had been clinging. 

Heavy eyelids shutting as his eyes roll back, the whirling dizziness takes over as his head begins to spin. The thin layer of body heat generated from his core quickly taken off from his contracting stomach as the prickling ache begins to be bothersome sensation once again, surging through his spine. The last trail of morphine and coke giving him a fleeting sensation of a high, once short-lived euphoria passes through like a high tide of the sea during the tempest, the aftermath is much more devastating and depressing one. Counteracted with the sinking feeling of blue, the last annoyed kick of his leg leaves the soaked fabric to be flung across the tub, leaving him completely naked. “There should be a robe inside the overhead cabinet. You fucking are welcome to use one after you get me out of this fucking bathtub.” Feeling the prickling pain slowly radiate from the back of his eyes as he surely knows, surrendering to the lassitude of convalescence in which time, hurry and doing doesn’t exist. He doesn’t have to. 

Taut neck stretching as he sits up straight, pulling him away from the lassitude of prolonged position. His body already at work as a slight tremor carries through the torso, the contrasting onslaught of chilled shudder and the smoldering heat rips through his face as muscles slack, lips pursed as his normally fierce and stormy hazel grows more filmy. His shoulders slouch as slender fingers lock in front of him to bring bent knees forward, his growing interest lodges and hides from the view as body curls round in attempt to push his aching muscles upward. His eyes glinting a mere flash of annoyance of the comment earlier, his futile effort crashes down as his legs buckle, his hands unceremoniously gliding across the wet tiles behind him. Shaking the gradually intensifying headache off, more perspiration drips down the length of his body as something akin to growl slips out from his parted mouth. “Just leave me the fuck be, I fucking got into this goddamn mess, I’m getting out of it alone, but do give me that fucking robe, it’s getting cold as fuck.” Feeling more vulnerable as ever, but adamant about making to the bed with the last clutch of strength he holds, he takes a shaky step outside the tub as he braces himself by the sink.


	13. Chapter 13

“No.” The words came easily with a rough tone followed by Will’s arms becoming crossed in front of his chest. His blue eyes watched Nigel struggle inside the pink stained bathtub as he moved back from the tub to lean back against the frame of the door. It was apparent with the way that his jaw tightened and eyes narrowed that he was no longer interested in the behavior being exhibited. “You can make up your mind here and now. I either leave you here to practically drown yourself in your tub, and find somewhere else to go, or you pull your head out of your ass and politely accept my help.” 

Will inhaled gently, tilting his chin up to the ceiling. It didn’t matter how attractive the druggy in the bath tub was. He wasn’t going to watch the man throw a temper tantrum, and he absolutely was not going to accept it. He blinked, feeling the heavy air practically soak his skin as he dove into his thoughts. He could try using an app on his phone to look for local hotels. He was sure somewhere around had to have Wi-Fi. 

The entire country was different to him, almost terrifying, but he figured if he could survive anything Hannibal Lecter had to throw at him he would be able to handle any of the thugs on the street looking for a fight. His tongue dragged across the back of his teeth as he settled further against the wall. Part of him surged with a sense of stability, knowing that standing up for himself was going to be the first step on overcoming the strong need to find Hannibal. Deny an animal their food and they’ll soon find somewhere else to go. 

His blue eyes traced the pattern on the ceiling before he looked back down towards Nigel. His sympathy and empathy for the man were still strong, knowing he acted the way he was for a reason, but it didn’t make him want to change his mind. He would not be treated like someone’s bitch just because it was convenient to them. That is what Jack had done to him, and now he knew that it was very much his downfall. 

“Have fun getting out of the tub without me. If you rip or stitch or gain any more wounds don’t think that I will for a second hesitate to call an ambulance. I imagine it would be a great story explaining to the doctors what is in your system, and how you got your nice little cut there. When you realize that you need me I will be in the other room.” Will quickly pulled himself from the wall, turning around the corner of the door so he could walk down the hall to the kitchen, turning on the sink so he could paint his hands in cold water. He watched his reflection along the stainless steel appliance before he splashed the water up into his face, letting each drop fall from the bridge of his nose down into the water.

____

As soon as the dogmatic response echoes off the tiled walls, he thinks about catty calling as usual. Headstrong and unyielding as he had been, the bitterness coursing through his body had left him to be nothing but docile. “I’m not going to be a fucking fickle and be volatile just because I’m fucking injured.” A decisive remark as he takes a long and shaky breath, his heart throbbing against his throat as his body begins to succumb with lassitude taking over. His extremities don’t feel like they’re attached to his torso. Like a puppet controlled by a puppeteer, the drug still circulating inside his system leaves his body to be clumsy. He’s running out of his option though. 

His voice croaky and gravelly, he clears his throat as his conscious begins to slip into an oblivion. A pendulum swings in his mind. Perhaps it’d be best for both of them if he had sunk inside the tub and perish. Hannibal didn’t care shit and he would be oblivious of his self-destructive bouts, gradually intensifying as his battered body took a toll. He felt like he was shutting down indefinitely. Perhaps that was why his initial emotion had been charged with animosity towards anyone who genuinely tried to help him out. His rough and tanned olive complexion turning sallow and pale, the veins on his forehead and neck surfaces as they begin to throb. His eyes drifting close, his fingers curl against the slippery tiles as he tries to prevent his body from sinking. It doesn’t just yet, but in his mind, he had already sunk. His legs buckling as each step grows more tentative.

His ash-blonde hair veiling one side of his angular face, a minute scowl furrows the bridge of his nose and his forehead right above his scar, the most prominent one on his face. Broad-shouldered form slouching as each faltering step makes the recently stitched gash to gape and spasm, even without him realizing the agonizing sound coming out from his slack lips, the tongue swipes across the back of his teeth as his lips purse together tightly as he watches Will turn his back away. Almost losing the footing, but propping himself up by an elbow against the sink, his fingers tremble to catch the edge of the robe, pulling the sash sticking out from the plush fabric. Standing by the balls of his feet, his teeth grinds as his eyes tightly shut, head falling as he bites his lower lip to prevent from wanton groan from escaping outside. 

Feeling the stitches stretch as he returns to his slouched position, donning the robe poses another huge challenge as even pulling one sleeve on his arm requires a strenuous movement, which might tear or even worse, make him bleed yet again. Uninjured arm goes through easy, while he gives up with his left arm. Leaning against the closed toilet cover as he breathlessly pants, his head thumps against the tiled wall on the opposite side, his consciousness slipping as searing pain almost knocks him out, as if an electric shock current is ripping through his body. Feeling of abandonment, loneliness fills his head as his hand limply falls.


	14. Chapter 14

The cold water had no effect on clearing Will Graham’s head, instead it only made him feel far worse for leaving Nigel inside the bathroom to trip over himself. His hips pressed forward against the counter, feeling the surface dig into his skin through his clothes. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. It had felt like his emotions were running up a steep hill colliding with the stranger’s own thoughts. 

With a heavy breath he lifted his head, his pale skin lighting up with the aid of the moonlight peeking through the window. The white color danced across his face creating an array of dark blue shadows. The only movement came from the bob in his neck as he finally decided to turn around and head back towards the bathroom. 

Will Graham had done many things in his life, and before Hannibal Lecter he never thought about killing someone, in fact it had made him sick enough to where he had dropped out of the police training academy. That had been why he chose to continue being a door mat for Jack Crawford. He was saving lives until his very own broke under his weight. That led to the death of Randall Tier, but he constantly tried to justify it by putting the blame on Hannibal for sending him to kill him. If he still had any say over how he acted from here on out he wasn’t going to let any more bodies fall at his feet. 

Peering into the bathroom led his blue eyes to wander over Nigel’s slumped over form. His brows pinched together almost immediately giving a soft sigh as he stepped forward, grabbing the tanned arm to bring it over his shoulder. Normally he would have made a told you so remark, but instead he figured it would just be better to get the man to the bed. 

Soft hushes spilled from Will’s lips as he tried to work his smaller frame in his favor, holding the majority of the drug lord’s body on his own. Walking down the hall had been a struggle, having caused Will to slam his hip into the table as he tried to round it so the man beside him wouldn’t run into it. “Okay… Fuck.” He huffed, feeling the sweat on his brow drip into his brows. 

It didn’t take much longer to get to the bed, Will laid Nigel back, keeping a hand on his shoulder to keep him down as he pulled the robe open to look at the wound on his side. “Don’t move. Now is not the time to be stubborn.” With that he got up and went back to the kitchen grabbing two rags, soaking them in ice cold water. He folded one neatly into a rectangle, and kept the other one balled up in his fist. “Okay. Keep this on your forehead. Need to break your fever.” Will kneeled back down at Nigel’s side, placing the folded rang over his forehead, his hand gentle to help move the ashen locks away. “After I get your side cleaned up I will get some blankets on you.”

____

Impatient and prone to anger, the fury inside him rises off the chart as his mind plays over and over about the scene that had gone wrong from the start. How he could have been so stupid. Outnumbered and he had withdrawn his guard too quick. All in his life he had been masking his tenseness and nervousness before the heist and smuggling business with steel walls of nonchalance and sangfroid poker face with an added protection of flippant bouts of catty remarks. Limp fingers curling upward and then faltering as the last remaining one percent of energy enervates off from his muscles.

Filmy orbs lifting as his blank and bleary gaze points upward to the moon, blurry against his swirling view as the room begins to close in on him. Like a cube tightening in his grip, his palpitating heart feels as if he’s getting suffocated. Spine curled in the most uncomfortable manner as his liquid hazel darts across his pale and almost cream-toned looking and naked complexion barely covered by the rope, he weakly puts the other arm through as he makes the other side of the sleeve, shoulders shifting as his heightened sense immediately picks up Will’s feet padding through the threshold of the living room as he senses the form rounding by the doorframe. 

Bracing himself to make more of the off-putting and insolent remark as his lips twitch, a mere hint of a groan emits from his lips as his own weight feels like a heavy road. Letting out a dragged and defeated sigh as he finds weak footing on the slippery floor, the pinkish water along with few drops of fresh blood leaked from his side painted across the tiled surface. Beads of sweat on his drenched and darkened caramel toned with salt and pepper flecks in between them dripping over his half-shut eyelids, his full and swollen lips taste the faint trace of his blood and saltiness of the sweat as his cupid’s bow drops an especially fat roll. 

Perhaps this is what the assailant wanted after all. Already knowing what his Achilles’ heel had been, his continued and ongoing habit of dependence on narcotic and its abuse. Heightened and much more amplified by his weakened body and mentality. This was definitely worse and gruelling than exsanguinating on the chilled asphalt, a sure way to bring him down into a spiralling abyss. Let the one piece of domino fall, the rest of them will crumble down in the feigned appearance of a beast. 

Like a defeated Hector being dragged by his ankles, being held in contempt and the feeling of being disrespected surges as the searing heat resonates through his skin. Feeling the bile creeping up his windpipe as his frail view continues to sway as queasy feeling dramatically increases, his movement is as unceremonious as he had slouched against the toilet just minutes before. Tongue pressing against the back of his teeth as his head rolls off to his shoulder, the whiff of the night breeze through slitted open glass door to the roof sweeps through his body, which succumbs to the lassitude of both his injury and breaking of the fever. “Let me sleep, why don’t you fucking get something to eat.. Like I’ve told you, that soup is excellent.”


End file.
